“Nine Days, Seven Battles: Cylus’ Journey Through MIBG Therapy”.2104 (8kj)
Nine days. Nine days that felt like both a lifetime and a heartbeat, a stretch of time where every moment was threaded with hope, fear, and an unwavering determination. Seven of those days were spent in complete isolation. Seven days in a room where the outside world was reduced to muffled voices through a door and the sterile hum of hospital machines. Seven days bathed in radioactive light—each moment precise, targeted, and relentless. And now, finally, after all the waiting, the uncertainty, and the trials, we are heading home. MIBG therapy is done—for now.
Looking back at the week that was, it’s hard to even know where to begin. It was exhausting in every possible sense: physically, mentally, emotionally. But through it all, Cylus shone with a strength that left us both in awe and in tears. Every single tumor he carried responded to the radiation.
Even the new skull base tumor, one that hadn’t appeared on previous scans, took the treatment. And not only that—two other tumors, previously undetected, were also reached and irradiated with precision. That moment, learning about those unseen tumors, was a mixture of shock and relief. Shock, because we hadn’t known they existed; relief, because MIBG had already done its work on them. It was proof that even when life feels invisible and unpredictable, science, care, and courage can find a way.
The week was brutal, no sugarcoating it. Cylus was weak, of course. Who wouldn’t be, after seven days in isolation, under radiation, with a body carrying the weight of both illness and treatment? But even in his exhaustion, he kept moving. Each step, each stretch of his arms, each attempt to sit up in bed felt monumental. It wasn’t just movement—it was a declaration. A statement that he refuses to be defined by his illness, that no treatment, no hospital stay, no tumor, no isolation, can take away his spirit.
If “you can do hard things” were a person, that person would be Cylus. Every day, he teaches us lessons that no book, no seminar, no lecture could ever impart. Patience, resilience, endurance, and the quiet courage that shows up when no one is watching. Moments that seem ordinary—playing with a small toy, laughing at a silly joke, or simply looking at us with that sparkle in his eye—become extraordinary when we realize the effort behind them. Behind every smile, there’s a body worn thin by treatment; behind every laugh, a mind that has weathered fear; behind every step, a heart that refuses to give up.
Watching him, we are reminded that courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s sitting alone in a hospital room, counting the minutes until you can see your parents again. Sometimes, it’s lifting your hand for the nurse, even when you’re tired and sore. Sometimes, it’s managing a tiny smile, a word, a blink of acknowledgment, when every cell in your body aches. Cylus showed all of that and more.
Nine days in a hospital is a number. But those numbers don’t convey the nights spent worrying over monitors and medication schedules, the hours counting breaths and blood counts, the endless vigil of love and vigilance. They don’t tell you about the smell of antiseptic, the hum of machines, the soft shuffle of nurses’ feet in the night. They don’t capture the tiny victories: a meal eaten, a nap taken, a hand held. Those moments are quiet, but in them lives hope. And hope is what carried us through.
Now, the hospital doors close behind us, and the world outside feels both immense and familiar. Home awaits—a space filled with warmth, laughter, and the ordinary comforts we often take for granted. But home isn’t just a building; it’s the place where Cylus can stretch his legs, breathe freely, and feel the safety of family. It’s where the walls don’t hum with machines, and the air isn’t thick with antiseptic. It’s where he can just be Cylus—playful, curious, brave, stubborn, resilient Cylus.
We will continue to watch him closely, continue to support him, continue to love him fiercely. But for today, we pause. We take a deep breath. We let ourselves celebrate the courage we have witnessed, the battles we have endured, and the victories—both big and small—we have earned. Cylus has carried himself through the unimaginable with a grace that is humbling. His bravery has lifted us as much as our care has supported him.
Our boy has taught us more in these nine days than we could have learned in a lifetime of ordinary days. Patience, love without condition, the beauty of small victories, the quiet resilience that comes from facing fear head-on—he embodies all of it. Every step he takes, every smile he gives, every look of determination is a reminder that even the hardest paths can be navigated with courage.
Now, the next phase begins: watching, waiting, hoping. We step forward with cautious optimism, knowing the road ahead may be long, with twists and turns still unknown. But looking at Cylus, we know that he will meet each challenge with the same steadfast courage he has always shown. And we, with hearts full of love, will walk right beside him, supporting each step, celebrating every triumph, and comforting every struggle.
Through all of it, there is gratitude. Gratitude for the science and care that made this treatment possible. Gratitude for the doctors, nurses, and staff who cared for him tirelessly. Gratitude for the resilience that exists in Cylus, a resilience that amazes us every single day. And gratitude for home, for the opportunity to breathe a little easier, and to feel the warmth of family together once again.
Cylus is more than a patient, more than a survivor. He is courage in motion, hope in action, a living testament to the strength of the human spirit. And as we walk out the hospital doors today, we carry with us a renewed sense of purpose: to love fiercely, to cherish every moment, and to honor the bravery of a boy who can do hard things in ways that inspire everyone around him.
Waiting for Answers: Colbie’s Journey Through Fear and Faith.1213
Prayers for Colbie: A Mother’s Plea
“I don’t post this as pity or for attention. I post and ask you to pray for my baby.”
With those words, Taryn Lyles opened her heart to friends, family, and strangers, inviting them into one of the scariest weeks of her life. For months, people who knew the Lyles family were aware that little Colbie had a choking problem.
It had become almost routine—though frightening every single time—for Colbie to struggle with swallowing, and sometimes food would become lodged in her throat. Doctors had been monitoring the condition, and procedures to scope her throat and clear the blockage had become something the family reluctantly expected.
That’s exactly what Taryn thought would happen on this particular day. She carried Colbie into the hospital with the same nervous hope as before: they’d find the food stuck, remove it, and then they’d be able to go home. That had been the pattern. As exhausting as it was, it was familiar.
But this time, everything changed.
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When the doctors began their procedure, they didn’t find what Taryn expected. Instead of a straightforward blockage, there was tissue that looked unusual. Scar tissue, possibly. But there was also another word whispered, one that sent a chill through Taryn’s entire body: lymphoma.
She couldn’t process it. She couldn’t breathe. In a single moment, the ground beneath her seemed to crumble.
“We received shocking news and have lots of uncertainty right now,” she wrote, her words raw and unfiltered. “I ask you to pray for the same answers as us—that it’s scar tissue and not lymphoma. It will be a long hard week of waiting. We’re in shock and feel like we’ve been punched in the gut.”
The fear of cancer is devastating for any family. But when it’s whispered about a child—her child, her baby—it becomes almost unbearable. Taryn looked at Colbie’s tiny frame, her innocent smile, the way she reached for her mother’s hand, and the thought of her enduring something as cruel as lymphoma felt impossible.
The doctors explained that they would need to send off tests to know more. The waiting would take days, maybe a week, and during that time there would be no real answers, only questions, only fears, only the desperate hope that the diagnosis would confirm something benign—just scar tissue, nothing more.
But how does a mother wait? How does she fill the hours while her child’s future hangs in the balance? For Taryn, every second seemed stretched out into eternity.
Nights became sleepless, her mind spinning with “what ifs.” She replayed every moment of Colbie’s short life in her head: the first time she laughed, the way her hair curled at the edges, the little songs she hummed when she was happy. All of it now felt so fragile, so threatened by something she couldn’t control.
The support of loved ones became vital. Friends and family checked in, offering words of encouragement, prayers, and shoulders to lean on. Some sent meals, others sent messages reminding Taryn and her family they weren’t alone. Even strangers, touched by her post, whispered prayers for little Colbie.
Still, there was no escaping the silence of the night when Taryn held Colbie close, inhaling her baby’s scent, pressing kisses on her forehead, and silently pleading with God to let her daughter be okay.
The waiting room of uncertainty is one of the hardest places a parent can stand. Each phone call from the hospital made her heart skip a beat. Each doctor walking into the room made her chest tighten. Taryn wanted to believe in the best, but the shadow of the worst loomed constantly.
Through it all, Colbie remained the bright light she always had been. She played when she had the energy, she cuddled close when she felt tired, and she gave her mom the strength she didn’t even know she had. Watching her little girl fight through something so confusing and frightening reminded Taryn of the resilience of children.
“I just want her to be okay,” she whispered to herself over and over again.
The days crawled by. Each hour seemed like a battle. Yet, faith became the anchor. Taryn prayed more in that week than she ever had before. She prayed with words, with tears, with silence. She prayed not just for Colbie’s healing, but for clarity, for peace, for strength to face whatever answers were coming.
Her request to others was simple: “Please pray.” Not pity, not sympathy, not attention—just prayer. Prayer that the doctors would come back with news that it was nothing more than scar tissue, something treatable, something survivable. Prayer that she wouldn’t have to face the nightmare word—cancer.
Every message she received, every “We’re praying for Colbie” whispered by friends, every “thinking of you” text, became threads in a net that kept her from falling apart.
Taryn’s story is not unique in the sense that many parents have been blindsided by sudden medical fears for their children. But what makes it extraordinary is the depth of love that shines through every word she shared.
Her vulnerability in writing about Colbie’s situation wasn’t about drawing eyes—it was about drawing hearts together, asking them to lift her daughter up in prayer.
No one can ever fully understand the weight of waiting for test results about your child unless they’ve been there. It’s a special kind of agony—silent, invisible, and relentless. But even in that agony, Taryn’s voice carried love, hope, and faith.
Whatever the results, one thing remained unshakable: Colbie was deeply loved. She had a mother who would fight mountains for her, who would take on every ounce of her pain if she could. And she had a community of people who, whether near or far, were united in prayer for her health.
For Taryn, the week of waiting would always remain etched in her memory—not just for the fear, but for the love that poured in. It reminded her that even in the darkest valleys, light could still break through in the form of compassion and prayer.
As she sat by Colbie’s side, stroking her hair, humming softly to help her sleep, she whispered once more:
“You’re going to be okay, baby. Mommy loves you more than anything. We’re going to get through this together.”
